


Light Illuminates the Scene

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Light Bondage, Love Letters, M/M, Sandy's writing is creepy sometimes, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the DW kink meme: Pitch has a secret admirer, whose letters start off as sweet and fluffy but take an increasingly filthy turn over time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Illuminates the Scene

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Please note that while all physical contact between the characters in this fic is consensual, some of the letters have a slight dubcon element that could be discomforting for readers with triggers.

"To Pitch,

I think next time I'll write "Dear Pitch", because that's what you are to me. I know it's silly, and that you would laugh at me if you ever heard it said, but it's true.

A sensible person wouldn't like you for that, but I'm not very sensible.

You're beautiful, Pitch. I don't know if anyone's told you, but you are.

In an ideal world, I'd love to kiss you until you understood that. I'd love to show you everything beautiful in the world, and make you see that it all pales next to you.

I'm yours, always."

 

Pitch tended to ignore any papers that fell into his lair from the outside world, save for the occasional tabloid - it was always good to keep track of global events, play on fears of war and similar - as the majority of those papers were trash. Junk mail advertisements, tiresome presentation handouts, wadded up notes for stories or poems, nothing that provoked Pitch's interest.

He'd never had a letter addressed to him before.

It was a curious thing, and accurate in that he laughed at the thought someone would call him "Dear", but its saccharine contents held little value otherwise.

Pitch left the note on his desk, the weight of a discarded newspaper keeping it in place, and gave it no further thought.

 

"My dear Pitch,

I watched a sunrise today, and it made me think of you. Seeing the world lit up would make most people happy - sunlight is a good thing for most people. Not for me.

I couldn't help but wish for a sunset. I think there's a reason sunrise is never as colourful as sunset - sunsets are a celebration. They mean the stars are coming out, and the moon, and dreams. All the best parties happen at night.

And for me, night means you. You bring the darkness to life. I try to, but you're talented in a way no other person has ever been - you scare me, but I'm not scared of you. I like being scared, Pitch.

Yours, always."

 

Pitch held onto the note for a good long while after he finished reading it. He'd heard a great deal of talk about his nightmares over the years, but nothing complimentary.

He didn't know if the letter's contents were specifically about his nightmares, but it felt as if they were. Dreams and fear, both in the same note.

It was always possible the writer meant to tease him; perhaps he'd laughed at them in the past. Perhaps they had called him dear to his face, and though he wouldn't remember doing so because it would have been instinctive, perhaps he had scoffed.

Pitch searched for the first note and held it up next to the second, scouring both for signs of sarcasm, and found none.

Wary but somewhat flattered, Pitch slipped both notes inside the cover of a hardback book he'd long ignored, so that they might be kept flat and tidy.

He allowed himself to think on the notes a little, from time to time.

 

"My dear Pitch,

I'd like to cook for you some day. I've often wondered what you eat, if you eat at all. Do you like playing a monster, eating bloody meat and drinking red wine? Do you prefer food that reminds you of the dark ages, plain and simple and served with too much beer?

Maybe you have a secret weakness. Maybe you love food for its presentation - I can imagine you eating sushi. The cool slide of raw salmon on your tongue, a strong hit of wasabi, and sticky rice to fill your stomach.

Maybe you have a sweet tooth. Maybe you don't even touch savoury food. Maybe it's all about spun sugar and burnt caramel. Maybe it's honey and pastry and coconut and cakes.

Maybe you're a bit like me, that way. Desserts are always worth making time for.

They're much like you, I suppose.

Yours, always."

 

Pitch had given very little thought to food before. He knew what could go wrong with food - he'd given plenty of nightmares out where maggots and rot infested a child's dinner - but he'd never needed to eat.

The absence of food in his life had never bothered him until he tried to think of a favourite meal, and found he didn't have enough experience of food to draw any conclusion.

Pitch set the note down on his desk, topping the other papers, and held it in place with a small paperweight before leaving his lair, torn between investigating sushi, or indulging in something sweeter.

 

As Pitch settled down in a New York park, a paper bag full of churros in one hand and an ice cream in the other, he missed the drifting golden cloud far above his head.

The drifting cloud's pilot didn't miss him, however, and had a smile that was as mischievous as it was knowing.

 

"My dear Pitch,

I wonder how often you wash. You spend so much time under beds, but you're always pristine - you can't just be hiding the dirt in the shadows.

Do you have running water in your lair? Is it natural? Is it cold?

I don't know what I like imagining more - the thought of you cold and wet, or the thought of you hot and wet. Cold water would keep your skin pale and tight. Hot water would make you flush. I think you would look good when flushed.

I've never been able to smell you, though I've been close enough that I should have. I know you mustn't smell bad, or I would have noticed. I wonder what your neck smells like. I wonder what the rest of you smells like.

Forgive me if I'm intruding. If you don't want my letters, you could always burn them. I'd see the smoke. I'd know.

On the other hand, if you don't mind me intruding, I'd love to intrude some more.

Yours, always."

 

Pitch read and re-read the fourth note repeatedly. The other three had all found a home in his library, pressed neatly in that hardback book, but the fourth note haunted his thoughts.

The idea that his admirer had been close enough to smell him beforehand was an idea that crept under his skin; it certainly narrowed down the possibilities of who could be writing the notes to him, as few spirits had ever dared cross his path, even after his powers dwindled courtesy of the Guardians.

The particular intimacy of the letter also made it unlikely that the writer meant to mock him. Mockery would have involved further declarations of love - or a request that Pitch write back.

His writer appeared determined to put on a performance for his eyes alone.

Pitch re-read the note once more, wondering when the writer had become "his" writer in his mind, before slotting it alongside its siblings in the hardback book.

It had been a long time since he last felt anticipation for something he hadn't wrought himself.

 

Sandy watched for smoke. For three nights he watched, and for another three he wondered if he'd missed it while crafting dreams.

On the seventh night, anticipation beat out nerves, and he dropped another letter into Pitch's lair.

 

"My dear Pitch,

I haven't seen any smoke so far.

What keeps you reading? Curiosity? Or was it when I mentioned something sliding on your tongue? Was it when I talked about smelling you? Was it the thought of me imagining you naked, either warm and sweating or cold with your nipples hard as ice?

You're beautiful, I've always meant that, and there is so much I would do to you if I could.

I want to watch you peel off the shadows and expose yourself for me. I want to see if you blush when I look at every inch of you, because I will - there's no part of you I don't want to see. I want to know if your toes curl when you're excited. I want to know if your fingernails are rough as stone or smooth as glass. I want to know where you're ticklish. I want to know where your skin gets damp with sweat the quickest.

I want to lick the base of your spine and the curves of your ears and the nape of your neck. I want to know all your tastes.

I want to know everything about you.

Yours, always."

 

Pitch creased the letter with how tight he held it, damaging it slightly and cursing himself for it. He'd seen spirits be attracted to him before, but they had always either left out of hate, or ran out of fear.

Food wasn't the only thing he'd paid no attention to in a long time.

The thought of interacting with the spirit leaving him letters had been an idle thought beforehand, but Pitch wanted to know more - he wanted to know what they looked like, what it would feel like to be naked before them, whether he would want their tongue or tongues on his skin.

It was tempting enough to take himself in hand and be done with it already, but Pitch valued anticipation above release. He did not know how his writer was delivering letters, but he knew where they were being delivered from, and opted for the coarse, simple option of writing in the soil by that particular pit, "More".

 

"Anything you ask, my dear Pitch.

I want to break into your lair and confront you. I want to find a bed and push you down on it, and I want to make you beg me to strip you. I want to see your nipples pebbled against your robes. I want you to be so hard that your pants are wet when I take them off.

I want to spread your legs until your thighs ache, and tie them up so that you can't close them. I want to bind your hands behind your back, so you can't touch yourself. Then I want to watch for a while. I don't know how long I'll be able to stand just looking, but I'll try. I want you to see how much I want you before I touch you.

When I do touch you, I'll start with your hands, then your arms, then your shoulders. Then your feet, your ankles, your calves. Your face, next - I might stay there a while, because it deserves the attention most of all. Then your chest, then your stomach, then your thighs.

Then I'll stop. You have to tell me what you want next.

Whatever it is, I'll do it. There's nothing I don't want to do to you. There's nothing I wouldn't let you do to me.

Yours, always."

 

Pitch didn't re-read the letter. He didn't need to, breath already hitching in his throat, the feel of clothing on his skin constricting, and he dropped the note to the floor along with his robes, careless and uncaring of that carelessness.

Gripping the edge of his desk tight with one hand, Pitch bent over slightly, shoving his free hand down the front of his pants and hissing with relief when he gripped his cock. A few rough strokes would have been enough, but he intended to draw out the moment a little longer, keeping his fingers light on his shaft and avoiding the swollen head, the temptation to dip a finger into the gathering wetness at its tip.

He felt flushed and warm, closing his eyes and imagining the thrill of exposure, the excitement of being left spread and aching for another's view, tightened his grip on the desk as he freed up his imagination. There was an element of fear in being bound and helpless, and it struck at his core, made his breath rough and his pulse fast.

A whisper of sound behind him made him wipe his hand on his stomach, quick adjustments to his pants covering his erection without hiding it, and he turned with bared teeth, preparing for attack.

Sandy stood in an archway, his golden glow seeming to emphasise the shadows around him rather than destroy them, and his eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed.

No symbols above his head, no whips in his hands.

_Someone who had been close enough to smell him._

"I use cold water," Pitch said, looking for any signs of recognition in Sandy's face, and swallowing despite himself when Sandy walked over, a small swirl of dreamsand lifting him up to eye level.

Sandy's skin had always looked soft, but Pitch had never wondered if it was delicious before.

Pitch closed his eyes as warm hands cupped his ears, small fingers tracing their curves and ridges, and when Sandy kissed him, he almost fell back against the desk.

Thankfully for both of them, shadows and dreamsand didn't obey the laws of human physics, forming a seat to hold Pitch in the air before he lost all sense of balance.

Sandy's tongue was far from shy, giving Pitch the confidence and sense of permission to kiss back, to show what his own was capable of, and within seconds the ache of his erection became unbearable once more. Sandy had done this to him - _Sandy_ had done this to him - and Pitch wanted to hate him for it, for leaving him dizzy and overexcited, but Sandy's fingers were drawing a trail down his neck and to the top of his spine that stole his thoughts.

The loss of Sandy's lips on his own made him blink momentarily before those same lips decided to pay attention to the front of his neck, and Pitch shuddered at being attacked from both sides, hands warm on his back and tongue wet on his front.

And Sandy kept moving lower.

"Don't stop," Pitch said, refusing to admit to himself that there was more of a plea in his words than a command, and Sandy glanced up at him, winked, flicking his tongue over Pitch's navel while his fingers rubbed meaningless patterns into the dip of Pitch's back.

Pitch's breath hitched as Sandy's hands dipped lower still, gripping his ass through the material of his clothes and kneading possessively before tugging Pitch's pants down roughly and rubbing his cheek against Pitch's cock.

Gravity would have won if Sandy didn't have more control of his dreamsand than Pitch had of his shadows; golden sand pressed up warm beneath Pitch, supporting his head when he threw it back, wrapping around his legs and lifting them when they turned to jelly.

Sandy had full control of him long before a warm hand gripped his balls and a hotter, wetter mouth closed over the head of his cock. _There's nothing I don't want to do to you._ The thought had him helpless, arching up as Sandy swallowed all that he could swallow, and Pitch went to bury his hands in Sandy's hair before finding he couldn't move them; dreamsand loops held him firmly in place.

He gasped sharply, needing the air, afraid of how much he _needed_ this, and the moment that thought struck home - the fear of wanting something, the fear of being wanted - he lost all grip on his self-control, crying out as he came. Sandy's tongue was relentless as it licked him clean, Sandy's hand on his balls squeezing gently and milking him through his orgasm.

 

Sandy had tucked him back into his pants by the time he regained his ability to concentrate, dreamsand still supporting his weight but no longer binding him in place, and Pitch straightened up as best as he could, unsteady on his feet and struggling to believe what had just happened.

The smug little smile on Sandy's face and light streak of grey on his cheek both acted as evidence, and Pitch bent down to gather the note he had discarded earlier, straightening it and setting it aside on his desk.

With his arousal satisfied, he felt decidedly less exposed, albeit still confused - he and Sandy had spent more time over the years as neutral parties than they had as enemies of each other, but this development was unexpected, to say the least.

"Why did -" Pitch started, before realising he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Why now? Why him?

Sandy smiled, reached out to take Pitch's hands in his own, rubbed his thumbs over the skin of Pitch's wrists as sand speech took form over his head. _I almost lost you. And you are beautiful._

Pitch frowned and went to turn his head away before a wisp of dreamsand caught his hair and held him in place.

Sandy's face was still affectionate, but stern. _You are beautiful. I'll prove it if you let me._

For a split second Pitch thought to ask how Sandy intended to prove it before the lingering warmth in his groin reminded him why that particular question was unnecessary. "Same time next week?"

_I'll surprise you,_ Sandy replied, hopping up to give Pitch a fleeting kiss that was far more chaste than their previous actions should have allowed before he disappeared back through the archway.

Tempting as it was to follow him and find out how exactly Sandy had broken into his lair in the first place, Pitch found himself more interested in tucking Sandy's latest note away safely - and after that, more interested in gathering blank paper and a pen.

Sandy had shown Pitch a little of what his own imagination was capable of.

Pitch intended to return the favour.


End file.
